


if you're afraid (use cream)

by whitew0rms



Category: Polygon/McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Chefs, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-05-18 05:02:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14846300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitew0rms/pseuds/whitew0rms
Summary: The day Brian meets Pat he's been baking for about 12 hours, incapable of stopping. It was one of the days where he's on the edge of his brain, out of his mind with anxiety and fear, incapable of thinking beyond the soothing motions of baking, melting chocolate, whipping egg whites into stiff peaks, making meringues, and cheesecakes, and pies. The last one he makes is strange, a little off his usual, but well, fate always knows better than he does. He doesn't even really know what it'll be until it's done.Or, where Pat cooks, and Brian bakes, and it's a winning combination.





	if you're afraid (use cream)

**Author's Note:**

> This was intended to be shippy and long and ridiculous but actually all I wanted to write about was food and Brian and Pat making each other better. So I did.
> 
> Title comes from Julia Child. "If you're afraid of butter, use cream."

The day Brian meets Pat he's been baking for about 12 hours, incapable of stopping. It was one of the days where he's on the edge of his brain, out of his mind with anxiety and fear, incapable of thinking beyond the soothing motions of baking, melting chocolate, whipping egg whites into stiff peaks, making meringues, and cheesecakes, and pies. The last one he makes is strange, a little off his usual, but well, fate always knows better than he does. He doesn't even really know what it'll be until it's done.

He starts by creaming sugar and butter in the old scratched up metal bowl he took from home, beating it until its smooth and pale yellow. He adds the eggs and the vanilla, before adding in flour, baking soda, and salt. He never measures anything, always just knows, exactly right. He's never looked up a recipe in his life. Finally he pours in a bag of chocolate chips, mixes them in with his hands and looks at the dough, thinking about what he wants to do with them.

He brings out a tart dish, clear glass with a comforting weight, and butters it, before he presses the dough into the dish, all up in the sides, feeling the dough against his hands. When he's done, he d covers the cookie in baking parchment and ceramic weights to keep the cookie dough from rising before putting it in the oven, and waiting for his kitchen to smart smelling even more of butter, sugar, and chocolate.

He pulls it out and sets it on a cooling rack, picking up the balls and pouring them back into the mason jar they normally live in. Steam wafts over the crust. It's as pretty as a picture.

He takes out some smooth peanut butter, whips it with double cream and butter before pouring in about half a cup of icing sugar, tasting every now and then to check the ratios, even though he knows he shouldn't, it's unhygienic really. It's also beautifully delicious, rich and smooth on the tongue. He sighs to himself, feels his shoulders drop.

He leaves them for around an hour, leaves the peanut butter mixture in the fridge, already half full of desserts, and waits for the crust to cool, before pouring the peanut butter on top and smoothing it out, and placing it all in the fridge for another hour. He never has to check any of these things, just knows it deep inside himself.

Finally he makes a chocolate ganache, which spreads itself over the top of the tart, glossy and beautiful. ON a whim, he sprinkles a little sea salt over the top.

He thinks just maybe, he's done for the day. His hands don't itch, and he's got a fridge full of sweet things. Today wasn't great, but it wasn't impossible either.

Brian's mom calls it a curse, but Brian doesn't really mind it, not anymore. He minded it when he was a child, when he had the feelings that he couldn't understand, the knowledge he didn't want, and the inability to do what fate asked of him. He'd sit in the kitchen crying, knowing what the world wanted of him and knowing he couldn't do anything about it. His mom would pick him up, and hold him to her, and ask what he wanted.

The most common answer was 'brownies' which almost always made his mom yell for Laura across the house, who would at that point tearfully confess to craving brownies, but it wasn't always so simple. He stammered his way through 'galette des rois', and 'île flottante', and made his poor mom buy rum for rum babas so strong that he couldn't even try them. He got used to carrying around tupperware full of baked goods, walking everywhere with a bag just full of sugar.

Despite it all he stays as skinny as a twig. Fate has a funny way of dealing things. it comes in handy. He's never unprepared for a birthday, or an anniversary, or a breakup, he always has exactly the right thing there waiting for him, or for someone else.

Laura gets home while he's sitting at the kitchen island trying to note down some of the recipes from today, like the weirdly nice basil ice cream, and the tart, which feels strangely important. A tallish man is following her, brown hair done up in a messy bun on his head, and clear framed glasses on his face. He's dressed like every Brooklyn hipster, but Brian can't really talk, and he looks nice, really.

"Brian! Speak of the devil!" Laura exclaims, faux camp in the way that always makes Brian laugh.

"Were you talking about widdle ol' me?" He asks, affecting a stupid baby voice. The man behind Laura chuckles, and Brian feels the warmth of making someone laugh run through him.

"This is my friend Pat, he wants to start a restaurant and he's been looking for someone to do desserts, and well, I thought you'd be perfect for that!" She winks at him, over the top, and well, she's never been good at subtlety.

"Do you have anything I can try?" Pat asks, and Brian turns his attention to him, studies him for a moment, before deciding.

"I have a lot of things, but I think I know just what to start with" Brian says, pulling the tart out of the fridge, carefully setting it down on the counter and cutting Pat a small slice, before handing him a fork.

When Pat eats the first mouthful his eyes go wide and he moans, low and guttural. Brian wishes he could find it less attractive than he does.

"God" Pat mutters. "I have been craving peanut butter all day, how did you know?"

"Guess I'm just lucky that way." Brian says, and grins.

"I'm gonna try everything else you've got, but if they're anywhere near as good as this, you're hired."

"Pretty sweet" Brian says, smiling up at the sign on their restaurant a month later. Pat groans, but puts his arm around Brian's waist and pulls him close to him anyway. They don't open til later this evening, and even then it'll be small, and strange, with dessert only coming when the people really need it. But Brian knows they'll make it.

Fate has a funny way of dealing with things, after all

TABLES FOR TWO  
Gill & Gilbert  
694 Manhattan Ave., Brooklyn (718-383-8993)

If you're in northern Brooklyn and in the mood for rich comforting meals served in an inviting setting, look no further than Where the Sidewalk ends, the newest venture from Patrick Gill, known for sensational food truck, Pizza Suplex, which proved that food truck food could be more than just a gimmick, and his newest find, Brian David Gilbert, who finishes each meal with a dessert seemingly perfectly matched to any sweet tooth. The restaurant itself is dark and welcoming, lit with romantic lighting that makes every meal feel intimate and private, despite the restaurant being fully booked for months.  
  
The menu offers a careful mix of innovation and and great ideas, and ingredients that are worked to perfection. This isn't fad food, it's food made to nourish and comfort, to make you indulge in the sensation of eating truly good food. You can't photograph your meal, the lighting won't let you, everything becomes focused on the sensation of the now and the new. It was deeply satisfying.  
  
The appetizers range from white asparagus roasted in butter, to the perfectly baked focaccia, which is such a pleasure that it becomes almost impossible to resist seconds, light on the tongue and beautifully elastic, it is one of those dishes that you crave intermittently.  
  
For the main event, Gill's special changes from day today, depending on seasonal produce and mood, but more often than not he returns to Italian mainstays done to perfection, seasonal produce used to its maximum effect. When I attended the special was a hearty Sicilian caponata, cooked to perfection with sharp bursts of Sicilian olives. Other dishes include stuffed quail, venison and walnut meatballs with black truffle oil and foraged porcini mushrooms, and black bass crudo.  
  
If Gill's specials set up the night, Gilbert's desserts knock it out of the park. Each made entirely unique and separate depending on the night, there is no menu, but every time Gilbert gets it entirely right, though certain items are evolving fanfare, in particular, the signature chocolate and peanut butter tart with sea salt that Gilbert apparently served Gill the day he was hired. Personally, I received a cherry-jam crepe, with Chantilly cream and generous powdered sugar. While Gill made a name for himself striking it alone with Pizza Suplex, this joint work with newbie Gilbert makes him much, much better.


End file.
